Benediction
by Nade-Naberrie
Summary: Thirty-seven years later and heading for certain disaster, Christine may find redemption where she least expects it. Set onboard the RMS Titanic.
1. PROLOGUE

**P R O L O G U E**

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><p><em><strong>Tu<strong>__**esday, August 7th, 1883**_

_**Chagny, France**_

_Lullaby and goodnight, with roses bedight_

_With lilies o'er spread is baby's wee bed_

The song rasped through a throat raw from exhaustion, breaking harshly over the higher notes. She paused a moment – swallowed, cleared her throat – before attempting the second verse. Her daughters were patient with her; both little ones lay sweetly and quietly in their mother's arms, staring up at her through hooded brown eyes.

_Lay thee down now and rest, may thy slumber be blessed_

_Lay thee down now and rest, may thy slumber be blessed_

Footsteps creaked on the floorboards, and Christine looked up wearily. The doctor stopped just outside the nursery door, holding his hat in one pale, blue-veined hand.

"I'm terribly sorry for the intrusion, Vicomtesse," he said, "but your husband is asking for you. I am not sure how long he—" He wet his lips, and tried again. "It is best that you go to him now."

"Thank you." She offered a tired smile, and dipped her chin to indicate the little girls in her arms. "Tell him I will be in as soon as the children are asleep."

The doctor hesitated. After a pause, he began to take cautious steps toward her, as if he were afraid that any sudden movement would cause her to startle. "Madame," he said slowly, "Your daughters have been sleeping for some time now."

Christine regarded the doctor with an empty expression for a long moment before shifting her gaze back to the children in her arms. Her features softened, and she began to rock again, and to sing.

_Lullaby and goodnight, thy mother's delight_

_Bright angels beside my darling abide _

The doctor's brow furrowed as he watched her. More than once he opened his mouth to say something, but decided against it and closed it again. Before he could make a decision as to how to intervene, a frightened, tearful voice echoed from the hallway.

"Mama?"

A small boy shuffled into the nursery, rubbing his eyes with the sleeve of his nightshirt. Christine looked up at her son with the ghost of a smile, but no sound moved past her lips when she tried to speak his name. The doctor crossed the room hurriedly and bent to speak to the child in a hushed, insistent tone. Her son shook his head in response, tears standing like diamonds in his eyes. She observed the interaction as if she were disconnected from her own body, watching blankly as the doctor gave up on his ineffectual attempt to reason with the boy and simply scooped the child into his arms. Her son's cries rose in a hysterical crescendo as he was carried down the hall, back toward his own room.

"No, I don't want to go back to bed! I want my mama! _I want my mama!_"

Something wet was on Christine's face. She blinked, and a few crystalline drops fell from her eyelashes onto her baby's pale, cold cheek. Immediately, she began to rock again. "There, there, darling. Don't cry. Everything will be all right." Somewhere far away, a door shut, and her son's panicked cries were effectively muted. Christine closed her eyes, and whispered into the silence, "Everything will be all right."


	2. Man of the Hour

**A/N: Hello, everyone, and thank you so much for joining me on my latest phanphic endeavor! This story is already very near and dear to my heart, and I am so looking forward to going on this journey with you. For the record, this is NOT a crossover. I repeat: not – a – crossover. That said, I think it's safe to say that nearly everyone will be familiar, to some degree or another, with the historical context in which I am placing the Phantom characters, due largely in part to the major motion picture that has forever branded itself on millions of hearts. I have spent hours upon hours reading up on the actual historical events – every detail in this story, down to what they eat, and what ferry they're on, has been meticulously researched. I will do my best to remain as true to actual events as I can. Of course, a few artistic liberties might be taken here and there for the story's sake, but for the most part I'm being really strict with myself on this.**

**A BIT OF SETUP: My characters and their respective histories are based upon a combination of Kay, Leroux and ALW. I've set the events of the Phantom of the Opera as having taken place in the year 1875. With the exception of the prologue, this story takes place entirely in the year 1912 – that's thirty seven years later, for those of you who don't like math.**

**ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: ****First and foremost, I absolutely must thank Flora Grey, without whom this story would have never gotten past the "So, I have this crazy idea..." phase. For the hilarious 3 AM banter, endless psychoanalyzing, encouragement, friendship, and insistence that I do not suck nearly so much as I think I do, this story is dedicated to you. "I don't know, I wrote it!"**

**Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay, Andrew Lloyd Webber and the Really Useful Group get all the credit for the Phantom characters and their glorious backstory. I'm just the sadist who takes those poor characters and tortures them mercilessly for fun! ;)**

**Raoul and Christine's son is my only original character in this story - and because I know someone is inevitably going to ask, YES, he is ACTUALLY Raoul's son. All other characters, aside from little bit roles like people on the street/in the bar/what-have-you, are actual historical figures.  
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**I'm posting this story now, on the 99th anniversary of the night Titanic went into the sea, taking with her 1517 men, women and children. My goal is to complete this story and make the final post a year from today, on the 100th anniversary of the tragedy.  
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**C H A P T E R O N E **

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><p><em><strong>Friday, February 16th, 1912<strong>_

_**Belfast, Ireland**_

"No."

"Just – just – hear me out a minute, Turner! 'Twouldn't be in any official capacity—"

"_No_."

"You wouldn't even need to be a part of the guarantor group this time! I'll sign you on as a private contractor. I'll pay you out of me own pocket, if that's what it'll take…"

Erik pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers, then scrubbed a hand over the good side of his face. Over the course of the workday, the dull, persistent throbbing beneath his eye sockets had intensified to a stabbing pain. He was currently in no mood to be pressed. Unfortunately, Thomas Andrews had a rich vein of Irish stubbornness, and seemed to have no intention of leaving until he got the answer he had come for.

"An hour a day for technical rounds, that's all I'm askin'. The rest of the time would be yours to spend however y' please." Andrews' brown eyes flicked desperately over his friend's impassive face for a moment. Then, with a sigh, he let his hands fall limp at his sides and lowered his voice half an octave. "I'm askin' you as a friend, here, Turner. You know what this launch means for my career. I've got Ismay breathing down my neck and a thousand reporters watching our every move. One hiccup in the system and it's my head on the chopping block. Please. I need the best with me on this run. Do this for me now, and I'll never ask you for anything again, on me honor as an Irishman."

A long stretch of silence passed between them before Erik finally let out his breath in a sharp sigh. "Get out of my office, Andrews." He passed a hand over his eyes, then added gruffly, "Leave the damned blueprints, if you must."

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than a grin split Andrews' face from ear to ear. The young architect laid his scroll of draughting paper on the desk, then stepped back and clasped his hands before him in appreciation. "I'll make it up to you, Turner, I swear. You won't regret this."

"I already do. Now get out of here before I change my mind."

Erik waited until the brisk clip of Andrews' shoes disappeared behind a closed door before carefully unfolding the scroll of paper left in his possession. With gnarled, arthritic fingers he traced the outline of the second-born in a class of ships that had become the highlight of his career and the bane of his existence. Last year, after a particularly nasty falling out, he had ripped up these blueprints in the design team's face and tossed the scraps into the fireplace. In a fit of rage he'd sworn off any further involvement with the insolent bastards at Harland & Wolff and struck out on his own as an independent contractor and naval architect. There were a thousand other jobs he could be doing – the stack of proposals from this week alone was overflowing off the edge of his desk. He'd enjoyed a long and distinguished career, and broken ground on several technical innovations which had since become the very backbone of the booming transatlantic trade. There was no reason, none at all, for him to ever return to working on the overblown, press-happy waste of steel known as _Titanic_.

Except Thomas Andrews.

Erik had known the lad since he was a bright-eyed intern of sixteen, eager to learn everything and anything about the shipbuilding trade. From the very beginning the boy had been groomed for a high profile managerial position, and it would have been entirely too easy to dismiss his rapid progress through the ranks of the company as favoritism on the part of his uncle, the senior partner and chairman of Harland & Wolff. But the honest truth was that Andrews was a bright and charismatic young man, as kindhearted as he was hard-working. He was just as likely to be seen taking his lunch at the docks with the welders as with the company's president, and the men loved him for the fact that he walked among them as equals. "Tommy," as he was known about the docks, was about the damned most likeable man Erik had ever known. Despite his valiant efforts to despise the cheerful young Irishman, he found himself in the unfortunate position of sharing every resident of Belfast's opinion of the managing director of the Harland & Wolff shipyard. Had any man short of Andrews himself come to Erik to beg for him to sign back on to the _Titanic _project, he would have been met with a cruel bark of laughter and a door in his face.

With a sigh, Erik spun the blueprints back into a roll, tucked them under his arm, and stormed out of his office. His secretary leapt back toward her seat when he turned the corner into the lobby, accidentally overturning her cup and saucer in her frantic attempt to look as if she were doing her work. "Oh!" she muttered as she drew out a handkerchief and began to sop up the tepid coffee. "Mr. Turner, I apologize, I didn't see you."

But Erik hardly noticed her mumblings at all; the admonition he had prepared suddenly died on his tongue as he was met face-to-face with perhaps the largest, most elaborate floral arrangement he had ever seen in his life. Orange and pink roses, hyacinths, lilies and carnations exploded out of a vase in a riot of color, taking up nearly a third of the front desk.

"What, pray tell, is _that_?"

His secretary looked at the arrangement dumbly, then offered, "Fl-flowers, sir?"

Erik was certain the blood vessels in his eyes would burst at any given minute. He put two fingers to his temple, attempting vainly to massage away the oncoming migraine. "Yes," he said through clenched teeth. "Thank you, Mary, I can _see_ that. What I am more interested in gleaning from you is what exactly they are doing in my office."

"Why, Mr. Andrews brought them in for me, bless 's heart!" she gushed. "He remembered that my Michael's got a right nasty case of the mumps, thought a splash of color might brighten 'is day. He brought a fruit basket, too, and a lovely card, bless 's heart."

"I see. And I suppose the glow from Mr. Andrew's halo rendered you temporarily incognizant to the fact that I gave you _specific instructions_ not to admit him?"

The secretary did, at least, have the good grace to blush. "No, I remembered it well, sir! But bein' as Mr. Andrews is your superior, I couldn't very well—"

"He is not," Erik interrupted coldly, "my superior. I choose to work for him, or not work for him, at my own convenience."

"Of course, sir," Mary conceded, though her eyes had drifted deliberately to the scroll of draughting paper in his hand.

Unwilling to dignify the passive-aggressive stare with a response, Erik turned on his heel and marched toward the door. "I'm taking the rest of the day off," he announced as he pulled his hat and coat down from their respective pegs. He took up his cane and put a hand on the doorknob, and then sighed. "Mark yourself the full day's salary, and go home to your son. I'll see you Monday morning." He slammed the door on her exclamation of thanks – gratuitous appreciation made him uncomfortable.

A quick glance at his pocketwatch revealed that it was just after two o'clock, and still early enough to beat the Friday rush for a quick drink at McHugh's; at hornblow, four thousand hungry men would descend upon the pubs of Belfast, and by that point Erik fully intended to be tucked away in the peace and quiet of his own flat, nursing what promised to be a headsplitting migraine. A few shots now would take the edge off the worst of it, though he would likely pay for the instant gratification tenfold come morning…

_To hell with it_, he decided, ducking into the dimly lit pub. Impulse control had never precisely been his strong point.

There were only a few patrons currently lounging about the bar, and Erik cringed inwardly as he realized that he knew every last one of them. For as large of a city as Belfast was, he found that this was the case an alarming amount of the time. It seemed everybody in the coastal Irish town was involved one way or another in supplying and constructing the White Star Line's mammoth luxury liners, forming a massive meshwork of communication and common ground; everyone from the barbers to the grocers knew the current specs and statistics on the sister ships _Olympic _and _Titanic_, and blathered on incessantly about them as if they were discussing beloved children.

Joseph Murray looked up from behind the bar as the door chime announced Erik's entrance. He jerked his head once in greeting, and gestured a welcoming hand at the stool in front of him. "Early start to the night, eh, Turner? What're you havin'?"

"Whiskey, on the rocks."

The bartender grinned as he poured him a double, revealing a crooked row of yellow teeth. "That bad, eh?"

"Ahh, Tommy must've made it down to see yeh, then," laughed a man two stools over – Mack Hayes, a former colleague from the draughting department. "He said he was headin' your way after lunch to sees about gettin' you back on the _Titanic_ job. I bet 'im three pounds he couldn't do it."

Erik shot back his whiskey in one burning gulp, then raised a finger for another.

"Bleedin' Christ," Mack swore, "You didn't take him up on it…?"

With a stony glare, the masked man procured three pounds from his waistcoat and slid them down the bar. "Go to Hell," he grumbled.

"What has he got you doin' then, fittin' out the new promenade deck?" Joseph asked, already in the act of pouring Erik another drink. "You've heard they're enclosing it now."

"Since when?"

"Since this week," Mack supplied. "First classers on the _Olympic'_ve been complaining 'bout the amount of spray kicked up on rough waters. White Star's just put in the order to have forward A-Deck covered."

"Well, there goes their March launch."

"April, they're sayin' now."

Erik swore under his breath, swirled the melting ice and whiskey in the bottom of his glass, and took another deep drink. "Andrews conveniently failed to mention that," he said, rolling an ice cube around his mouth.

"Ah, you should be flattered, mate. He wants you on his team somethin' sore."

"So I've noticed."

He withdrew into his own thoughts as talk turned, predictably, to technical statistics on the size, scale and luxury of _Titanic_, comparing her to her sister (and here the arguments became heated, with loyalties on either side as to which was ultimately the better ship), and, finally, hearsay about which American millionaire had bought a ticket _this_ week. At that point, Erik finished his drink in one last gulp, and promptly excused himself. The architect in him could withstand a certain level of blather on the ship itself, but he had no stomach for the press or celebrity gossip.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen."

"Aye, you as well, Turner." Erik turned to leave, but stopped when Mack cried out, "Oy! Turner! Good to have you back, mate."

He didn't allow himself to smile until he was tucked away in the privacy of his own flat.


	3. The Living and the Dead

"_Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live." __- Norman Cousins_

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><p><em><strong>Wednesday, April 3rd, 1912<strong>_

_**London, England**_

The ambient chatter and clink of silverware faded as Christine crossed the threshold between the living and the dead. She was the only member of the party to slip away, silent and unnoticed, to the den at the back of the hallway. There, an open coffin rested atop a long, clawed-foot table. She hesitated only a moment before stepping forward to peer over the casket's edge. With the cool indifference of a patron at a museum, Christine studied the corpse of the only mother she had ever known.

Death had relaxed Antoinette Giry's features into a serene, contented expression that seemed unnatural on a face that, in life, had been permanently etched into a scowl. She was too open; too vulnerable. It was as if an amateur artist had been commissioned to sculpt a wax figure of the ballet mistress, but failed in all respects to capture the essence of the woman she had once been.

"It looks nothing like her, does it?" said a voice behind her, as if reading her mind. Christine turned to see Meg leaning against the door frame, watching.

"Not like the woman I knew," she answered carefully. "But then, it's been many years since I saw her last."

Meg shifted her weight, her expression unreadable. "She asked about you, from time to time."

"I hope you gave her my regards."

"Of course."

A heavy silence fell over the room as Meg's eyes drifted over her mother's face and Christine's eyes drifted to the floor.

At last it was Meg who dared to speak, her voice tight with pain. "Toward the end, she… her – her mind wasn't what it used to be. Sometimes she could remember who she was, where she was. But other times…" She ran her tongue over her teeth, glancing sideways at the wall to hide the fact that her eyes glistened. "I remember that first morning, we had been talking normally, not about anything in particular. The weather, the Sunday news. And then all of a sudden she stopped mid-sentence, frowning at something over my shoulder. Out of nowhere she began to bark out orders at thin air. I listened, and I listened, and I thought, no… it can't be. She thought – she honestly thought she was the ballet mistress again, back at the _Populaire_. I was too stunned even to correct her. She spent nearly an hour lecturing those invisible little ballet rats. Terrible posture, abhorrent footwork, they would singlehandedly bring about the ruination of the art of ballet." Meg smiled, then, but it wavered and fell as quickly as it had come.

"She declined very quickly after that. Every day she would have entire conversations with people who weren't there. Ghosts. Papa, the baker down the street, Monsieur Reyer. There was no rhyme or reason to it. The doctor told us to prepare ourselves. The second stroke came three days later. After that she never came back. I was someone different every day, sometimes every hour. I figured eventually, through the process of elimination, she'd think I was myself – or at least a younger version of myself. I'd go in every morning hoping, but…" She pursed her lips, giving a little shake of her head. For a long moment she was quiet, her eyes glazed over. "You know, I could always tell in an instant when she thought I was you. The moment I stepped in the door, her face would light up with such… pride."

It was too much. Christine stood motionless by the casket, paralyzed by the emotional barrage. Chills curled up her spine, leaving gooseflesh in their wake. There was nowhere to go, nothing to say. She concentrated on her breathing, and hoped beyond hope that Meg would simply leave her alone and go back to the party.

Of course, it was not that simple. The ensuing silence pulsed with expectancy as Meg waited for words of comfort. Christine knew what her friend needed so desperately to hear: _Your mother loved you more than anything, and certainly more than me. I was her pupil; you were her daughter. She was very proud of you. _As seconds bled into minutes, she watched as comprehension dawned on Meg's face; gradually, incredulously, she seemed to realize that Christine had no intention of smoothing over the crippling fear that she was second-place in her own mother's heart. With a sentence, Christine could obliterate that demon forever; instead, she offered only silence. Hot on the heels of this understanding came the lethal stab of betrayal, and all at once, tears flashed to Meg's eyes.

"Unbelievable," she hissed. She took a half step toward Christine, drawing in a breath, as if to give voice at last to all the vile and vulgar thoughts that she had held back over the years. Christine closed her eyes, drawing her abdominal muscles tight in preparation for the onslaught she knew she deserved. Meg's fury was absolutely justified. In that one stretch of incompetent silence, forty years of friendship had been shattered irreparably. Christine tried to hate herself for her failure. She tried to ache for the loss of her only friend. But nothing, it seemed, would cut through the emptiness that permeated every inch of her soul.

Whatever Meg had intended to say, she seemed to think the better of it at the last moment. Instead, she let out a single, heartbroken sob, and smacked something down onto the table beside her mother's casket.

"Here," she spat, her voice dripping with venom. "This is for you. From my _mother_, with love."

The tap of her retreating footsteps announced her departure as she stormed away, leaving Christine alone with the dead. Only when the room was entirely silent again did Christine dare to open her eyes and look down with trepidation at the thing Meg had left for her.

It was a shoebox, wrapped in brown paper and secured tightly with twine. A small piece of paper had been attached, and written on it in Madame Giry's hand was a single line: _For Christine, in the hope that she might finally understand._

Christine's eyes drifted slowly, heavily, to the corpse's face. Her lungs cramped, viselike, for want of release – in laughter, in tears, she supposed it didn't matter; she would do neither. Instead, she swallowed, held the box in white-knuckled hands, and walked away.

She paused only once, in front of a crackling fireplace. For a moment she considered burning the box, and whatever misguided good intentions Madame Giry had sealed within it. At last she decided against it, if only for the time-being; she could not bring herself to destroy the heirloom in Meg's house. She would get rid of the thing later, or bury it deep in storage so that she would never have to see or think of it again. Nothing good or beneficial could come out of the _understanding _Madame Giry hoped to enlighten her with postmortem. Christine was years beyond the realm of help.

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><p>Supper that night was nearly unbearable.<p>

Christine and her husband Walter had planned to stay late once the rest of the funeral party had dispersed, in order to help clean up and keep their friends company during this difficult time. Walter and Meg's husband, John Woodmore, had been the best of friends just as long as the two women; they were international business partners, with John operating the London-based leg of their textile empire, while Walter worked out of Georgia, where his family had owned and operated several booming cotton plantations for generations. It had been through the matchmaking efforts of John and Meg that Christine had been introduced to her second husband in the first place, and so the couples had fallen organically into a pattern of social visits over the years. Each time Walter came to London on business he would bring Christine, so that she could visit with Meg while the men worked, and vice versa. For a while, the couples were virtually inseparable; they were together more often than not. They traveled leisurely around Europe and New England, even once venturing to Egypt to see the great pyramids.

Everything changed when John and Meg had their first grandchild. Their daughter moved into a home just down the street to be close to them, and suddenly the entire world shifted on its axis. Almost immediately the excuses came flooding in: they simply couldn't make it to Atlanta this week, little William was cutting his first tooth, and they couldn't very well miss such an important milestone! With subsequent grandchildren, the list of excuses grew exponentially longer – Eleanor had a violin recital, Henry was home with the measles and refused to take medicine from anyone but Grandpapa. The more of themselves they poured into their budding family, the less time they seemed to have for fraternizing with old friends, and so a distance had grown between the couples over the past few years.

In all honesty, Christine hadn't been terribly bothered by it, and Walter was able to carry out the majority of business via telegram; and so, aside from the occasional twinge of nostalgia, life carried on without so much as a break in stride. Until this trip, Christine honestly couldn't remember the last time they had seen the Woodmores in person. It had been months, certainly, if not years. What had struck her most sharply about this trip in particular was that it was the first time she and Walter had opted to stay in a hotel rather than in John and Meg's guest quarters; this, more than anything, spoke volumes about the unfortunate plunge their relationship had taken in recent years.

Evidently, Walter had arrived at the same conclusion, and was much more perturbed about it than Christine, for he had made a point to spend as much time with John during their time in London as he possibly could. The two men fell into their old patterns easily; brandies and newspapers, political banter, cigars and late-night card games – effortlessly, they picked up the pieces of their friendship and carried on as if they had never parted. They were having almost a shameful good time, considering the circumstances; neither of them seemed to pay any heed to the fact that Christine and Walter had come for a funeral. The men even went so far as to book passage back to America together on a ship out of Southampton the following week – the latest and greatest from the White Star Line; a luxurious cruise that promised the opportunity to mingle with the best and brightest of high society. The men had been practically salivating with excitement as they pored over the newspaper, reading the rumored first-class passenger list. John was already packed and had his bag waiting by the door, and even told his grandson, William, that he would have to make the _next_ rugby match. All of the plans were in place; they would take the train to Southampton together on Tuesday, stay overnight at the South Western Hotel overlooking the dock, and board the _RMS Titanic_ on Wednesday morning.

That was, until the four of them sat down to supper together that night.

John and Meg came to the table belatedly, and Christine could tell at once that they had been quarreling. John's face was scarlet, with bulging veins at his temples, and Meg had telltale smudges of mascara on her lower lids that she hadn't managed to wipe completely away.

The couples went through their salad and soup courses without saying so much as a word before John broke the silence by clearing his throat. "I'm sorry to say that I have some very unhappy news to share with you, dear friends." He pursed his lips into a white line and dabbed them with his napkin, visibly stalling for time, as if hoping that if he waited long enough, he wouldn't have to make his dreaded announcement. When it became apparent that nothing would prevent it, he finally continued, "Much as it pains me to say so, I'm afraid we won't be able to join you on the trip back to America next week."

"What?" Walter cried at once, his voice flying up an octave. He dropped his fork with a clatter for theatrical effect, and then demanded, "What do you mean '_can't go'_? Since when?"

John shot a look at Meg that went completely unnoticed, as she was suddenly very interested in the contents of her dinner plate. With a miserable sigh, he conceded, "Sorry, old boy. You know how badly I'd like to be there. Personal matters, you understand."

Suddenly remembering the circumstances of the day, Walter backed down with an extremely reluctant, "Of course, yes, I understand. Absolutely. Yes. I know this must be a – an incredibly difficult time for you both." He took a moment to process this new information, chewing a large bite of sirloin. "Well, that's a darn shame. A darn shame. I guess we'll just have to bring you along next time, then, eh, Johnny? Maybe we'll try to make it out for the _Gigantic_ launch. That's sure to be even bigger."

"Quite right," said John, visibly cheered. "That's an excellent idea. We'll plan for it."

Across the table, Meg sniffed, and took a long, deep drink of her chardonnay.

Christine pushed the potatoes around her plate, and said nothing.

* * *

><p>"Have a wonderful trip!" John called from the porch, trying his best to put on a good face. Even from the end of the drive, though, it was impossible to miss the slump of his shoulders as he waved them good-bye. "Be sure to send a telegram once you reach New York."<p>

"And you're sure you can't come?" Walter tried one last time, leaning out the car window. "We don't make launch for another week. Who knows, maybe Meg'll change her mind."

"I'm afraid she's quite set on staying here, old boy. You understand, I simply don't have the heart to push her at a time like this." John shrugged miserably. "But I shall expect a full, detailed recollection when you return. Keep a notepad by your bed at night, if you must. I want to know absolutely everything."

"Sure, sure I will. Every last detail, I swear it."

"I shall hold you to it! Good-night, dear friends. Bon voyage!"

"G'night, John!" Walter ducked back into the cab with a theatrical sigh as the driver turned out onto the street. He cast a quizzical glance at Christine, who sat at the opposite end of the bench, staring vacantly out of her window.

"Aren't you going to say good-bye?"

She shifted her weight, refusing to meet his gaze. "I did, inside."

"Well, I didn't see it. Seemed like you barely said two words all night. What's the matter with you, anyhow?"

Christine had the good sense to remain silent. When her husband was on the offensive, there was never a correct response. Instead, she shrugged diffidently and tried for a subject change.

"It's too bad Meg and John won't be joining us."

Fortunately, Walter accepted the bait enthusiastically, as it was a subject fresh on his mind. "You know, I wasn't going to say any of this in front of them, but if you ask me, it was bad form for her to pull that death card on him like that. I don't pretend to know what her problem is, but something else is going on with her, you mark my words. From what I hear, she wasn't even that close to her mother in the first place. The old bag lived in Paris, and they barely spoke until she lost her taw and near burnt her whole flat down. It was out of Christian goodness that John even bothered to take her in. Now, I don't mean to be crass, but I reckon it's a blessing in disguise that the old lady finally hit the bone orchard. Now maybe those two can finally get back out into the world and_ live_ again."

Unflinching, exhausted, Christine merely rested her forehead against the window pane and made a noncommittal noise of assent. She never once turned to look out the rear-view window as Meg's beautiful house disappeared behind them.


	4. Gilded Eggshells

_"You weren't there at my first meeting with Ismay. To see the little red marks all over the blueprints. First thing I thought was: 'Now here's a man who wants me to build him a ship that's gonna be sunk.' We're sending gilded eggshells out to sea."_ – Thomas Andrews, Managing Director of Harland & Wolff Shipyards

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><p><strong><em>Wednesday, April 10th, 1912<em>**

**_Southampton, England_**

To say that Erik's feelings about _Titanic_ were mixed, at best, would have been a terrible overstatement. He hated the thing – hated everything it stood for: the board members who had called for her creation; their swollen egos and congratulatory pats on the back; the adoring press; the bourgeois swine who would soon glide through the first class corridors as if they owned the place and everyone in it. A palpable sense of_ entitlement_ pervaded the entire project, and it prickled the hairs on the back of his neck.

Even still, in those peaceful morning hours before the city awoke, Erik couldn't help but run a hand lovingly down the polished oak handrail of the grand staircase. _Titanic_ was, for all her faults, a masterpiece, combining elegance and technology with breathtaking results. The architect in him marveled at her clean lines, the engineer at her impressive turbines and hydraulics. There was a current of terrible power that rippled through her hull; still and silent on the water, she pulsed with electrifying _potential_. It drew Erik like a moth to flame. He could hate it all he wanted, but he had never been able to resist the Sirens' beckon to beauty and power.

As the first grey light of dawn stained the horizon, he made his way slowly, tiredly, to the second class kitchens. Just as he'd hoped, a few other dedicated crew members had also been at work through the night, and they'd left a fresh pot of coffee out on one of the counters, still half-full. With a jaw-cracking yawn, Erik pulled a china cup down from one of the shelves and filled it to the brim with the dark, steaming brew. The first sip scalded his mouth, but he forced it down anyway, giving a sharp jerk of his head as it burned its way down his throat. Smacking his lips, he set the cup down to wipe away an irritating trickle of sweat that was trapped beneath his mask. Once the white kidskin was secured back in place, he drew his arms out in a long, shuddering stretch and consulted his watch.

It was a quarter to seven. Erik scowled; he had only been at work for twelve hours, and already he was feeling every one of his sixty-nine years in his bones. As a younger man, he'd had infinitely more stamina than this. He could work for days, sometimes a week on end without stopping to sleep or eat. That he was tired already – exhausted, even – was pathetic.

He sighed irritably, took another gulp of hot coffee, and brought his cup with him to go watch the sun rise over Southampton.

Even at this early hour, the port city had already begun to stir. From his vantage point several stories above the dock, Erik watched as a few locals walked their dogs along the channel. Although _Titanic_ had been berthed for a week now, the passersby still inevitably gazed up at her massive frame with awe and appreciation. With the heavy morning fog rolling in over the water, he knew the ship must have looked positively ethereal, as if she were drifting effortlessly on a bed of clouds.

He savored those quiet, languid moments, knowing that they would have to sustain him for some time. The press was having a veritable field day with _Titanic_'s launch, and in a few short hours this dock would be swarming with reporters and passengers alike. In part, that was why he had chosen to conduct his work at night, away from the bustle and fanfare that would arrive later in the day. Though he had acclimated, gradually, to a life among the living, he had never been able to rid himself of his instinctual aversion to crowds. There was peace to be found here in the dawn hours, though – something in the cool, dank air and the gentle lapping of waves that resonated with him as _home_.

He had just drained the last few drops of his coffee when the thumps of several footsteps rattled across the dock's wooden planks below, effectively shattering the last of those peaceful moments. Squinting down through the fog, Erik was able to make out a small group of men heading for the first class gangplanks. A few of them spoke in hushed, serious voices, though they were too far away for even his sensitive hearing to decipher the conversation. It wasn't until the tall, broad-shouldered man leading the group paused to address his peers that Erik realized who they were.

There were nine of them, total, on _Titanic_'s Guarantee Group. Thomas Andrews headed the team, flanked by the best and brightest Harland & Wolff had to offer: a master draughtsman, engineer, electrician, and foreman – each one an expert in his division, each one having poured years of his life, his very sweat and blood, into the ship that now stood gleaming and ready on the morning of her maiden voyage. Behind them, quivering in excitement, were the three apprentices Andrews had permitted to intern on the project – youngsters barely out of puberty, but dedicated to their craft and anxious to prove themselves in the field.

And then, of course, there was Erik… who still – _still _– could not believe that he'd allowed Andrews to guilt him back onto the project. He certainly wasn't _needed_ here, given the credentials of the other men in the group. Unfortunately, he was a man of his word; he'd said he was in, and now he was stuck. That did not mean he had to be pleasant or cooperative about it.

Almost directly below where he stood, the man Erik now recognized as Andrews took a step up onto the gangplank and turned to address the rest of the group in his commanding Irish clip. "Right, gents, listen up. We've got about half an hour to run a basic review of systems before we're to reconvene for Captain Smith's brief. I trust you all know what's left to be done on your units?" There were affirmative nods all around. "Right. Hop to it, then. I want all of you back up to the bridge deck by 0730 sharp. Don't lose track of time."

One of the young men in front of him cracked a lopsided grin. "Why yeh gotta look at me when you say that, Tommie?"

Andrews tapped the boy's cap down over his eyes. "Gee, I wonder. Go on now, lad, hurry along. Plenty left to do and not much time t' do it."

"Aye-aye, sir," the boy quipped with a salute and a cheeky wink before scurrying off to do as he was told.

Andrews clapped each of the remaining team members on the shoulder as they passed, wishing them luck. Only once everyone else had dispersed to their morning rounds did he turn to look directly up at Erik, quirking an eyebrow in amusement. "Top o' the mornin' to ya, Mr. Turner! I take it you had a productive evening?"

Although Erik's gut jolted uncomfortably at being caught off-guard, he refused to give Andrews the pleasure of a reaction. "Fairly," he said, straight-faced.

Andrews grinned at him, but not unkindly. "Oh, I'm glad to hear 't. I'll be up straight away to receive your report, then."

Erik looked down into his empty coffee cup, stifling a groan. While the rest of the team was just beginning their workday, he had been traipsing back and forth across the ship all night, testing and re-testing the watertight bulkheads. The damned things were, after all, his invention, and he wouldn't stand to let anyone else muddy them up any worse than they already were.

Originally, it had been his plan to divide the ship into sixteen separate watertight compartments. Each compartment was to be separated from the next by a steel trap door that could be closed remotely from the bridge, manually by a lever on the door itself, or automatically when a sensor on the door detected rising water levels. Any two compartments could flood, and the ship would remain afloat indefinitely. Even in the worst-case scenario – a head-on collision with another ship – Erik's design allowed for the first _four _compartments to fill with water, and the ship (while severely damaged) would still remain afloat.

The idea, he had to admit, was one of his better ones. Trap doors had always been his specialty, and incorporating them into ship's design had proved to be one of the greatest safety innovations in maritime history. Thanks to those bulkheads, they were calling _Titanic_ "unsinkable." And perhaps she might have been, if that senseless _idiot _of a chairman Bruce Ismay had not insisted upon tampering with Erik's design.

Rather than extending vertically up into B deck, as they were intended, Ismay had demanded that the "cumbersome" bulkheads be lowered down to G deck, where they wouldn't be such an eyesore for the first class passengers. Andrews, with his eyes flashing, had argued furiously on Erik's behalf, throwing every bit of his weight in the company into getting those bulkheads raised to an effective height. If they did not extend _at least_ above the waterline, he argued, they would be completely useless. The water would simply rise up over the top of the bulkheads and spill back into the next compartment, and the next, until the ship foundered. Reluctantly, Ismay had offered a compromise, to the bare minimum of Andrews' request: he allowed half of the bulkheads to reach E deck, and the other half D deck, just a few feet above the waterline. Andrews had no choice but to agree, his influence spent. Erik, on the other hand, had flown into a fit of rage, torn the blueprints up in Ismay's face, and quit on the spot. If his design was going to be rendered completely ineffectual, he wanted no further part in it.

Although the entire ordeal had left him with a bitter taste in his mouth, Erik had never been able to forget the tenacity with which Andrews fought for his design; it was part of the reason he had been unable to refuse his plea to rejoin the _Titanic_ project now. The Irishman wasn't any happier about the alterations than Erik was, and behind closed doors he made that sentiment perfectly clear. "Even my dullest apprentice sees the way we're half-buildin' these ships," he'd ranted once. "They're askin' me things like - 'Why do the bulkheads only go up to the waterline, Tommie? Why are we puttin' in electric watertight doors when the water's just goin' to pour over into another compartment, Tommie?' We all have a bad feelin' about it." While the commiseration was appreciated, it did nothing to assuage Erik's foul temper on the matter. To this day, he avoided any potential encounters with Ismay; he didn't trust himself not to punch the man's face in on sight. Such a perfectly good idea, _ruined_…

Bright and cheery, Andrews' voice suddenly broke through Erik's brooding reverie like a ray of sunshine. "All right, then, Mr. Turner, what do you have for me?" The Irishman smiled as he flipped open his notebook, pen at the ready.

Far too grouchy and overtired for such a cheerful greeting, Erik crossed his arms over his chest petulantly and leaned up against the railing behind him. "What would you like to know?"

"Were you able to test all of the bulkhead doors?"

Erik nodded.

"…And?"

A noncommittal shrug. "Completely useless."

Andrews sighed. "You know 't and I know 't, old friend. But the Captain will be lookin' for somethin' a mite more specific to his purposes than that."

For a long moment Erik simply scowled at him, unblinking. Then, finally, he reported in a dead monotone, "All fifteen doors close immediately from both manual and bridge controls. I cannot guarantee the automatic sensor response unless you'd like me to flood the lower decks. And believe me, I would be more than happy to oblige—"

"No, thank you just the same," said Andrews lightly as he scribbled away on his notepad. Without looking up, he continued on, "And the alarm?"

"I dismantled it after the first test. That infernal noise was giving me a headache."

"_Alarms functioning, effective volume_, check, check, check…" Andrews glanced up, then, raising an eyebrow. "You did remember to reconnect it when you were done testing?"

The corner of Erik's mouth twitched. "Of course."

Andrews gave a little shake of his head, murmuring to himself as he wrote, "_Note to self: reconnect alarm on bulkhead doors_." After making a few more marks, he shut his notebook with a crisp snap and tucked it underneath his arm. "Thank you very much indeed, Mr. Turner." Though his demeanor was entirely professional, the fine wrinkles around his eyes creased warmly. "I'm glad to have you here with us. I truly do appreciate you agreein' to come back on the job."

At that, Erik discarded his pretense of detached boredom and answered earnestly, "Why did you even bother to ask me? You have more than enough men to cover the job."

"Aye, and good men they are, too. Twasn't a matter of numbers, though, Mr. Turner, nor a matter of credentials. It's just…" He drew in a breath as if to continue, but stopped at the last minute, looking uncertain. "You'll mock me for 't, I'm certain, but I've just got this… uneasy feelin' in my bones that something's going to go dreadful wrong this time around. And if it does, I can't think of anyone better to have with us than you. You're a good man to have in a storm, Turner. Quick on yer feet, cool-headed, and you know this ship just as well as I do. If _Titanic_ comes to a spot of trouble, you're the one I'd trust to get her out."

Erik could only stare, stunned into silence. He had been called many things in his day, but _cool-headed_ had never been one of them. He was notorious for a foul temper and rash decision making when he truly stood to lose something he cared about. But in a situation like Andrews was imagining? A ship malfunction, a propeller blade spun off, a fire in the engine room – these were "disasters" of a professional nature, disasters that had no real emotional bearing on him. He had certainly dealt with his fair share of them in the past, and he supposed he had done so efficiently. He could never recall being commended on it, or thinking highly of himself for managing the situation; it was simply a part of his job. But Andrews seemed to think this made him… what had he called it? _A good man to have in a storm. _Reliable. Trustworthy. Although foreign to him, the thought was not entirely… unpleasant, Erik decided. At least Andrews seemed to intend it as a compliment. Gradually, he blinked away his shock, to find the Irishman smiling at him in his affable way.

"Oh, don't even say it. I know what you're thinkin' – old Tommie and his grand Irish superstitions." He gave a little self-deprecating chuckle. "And you're probably right, of course. With Captain Smith at the helm and you keepin' a watchful eye out, I'm sure there's nothin' to worry about."

Erik nodded, still unsure of how to respond. Evidently it was enough for Andrews, who patted him soundly on the shoulder as he turned to go. "I know you must be tired after running those drills all night. Don't worry about the meetin' on the bridge, I'll give your report to the Captain. Get yourself some rest. The passengers won't begin loadin' for another three hours or so. It's enough to get some shuteye in the meantime."

Erik wanted to protest that he was not tired, that he could keep going for hours, that he was more than capable of attending the Captain's brief to give report himself – but when he opened his mouth to fire off the retort, a yawn came out in its place. Thank God Andrews didn't see it; he had already turned, and was halfway across the deck. Reluctantly, Erik decided that perhaps a brief sojourn to his quarters would not be such a terrible idea. He'd just rest his eyes for a bit, and be back up on the bridge for the Captain's brief in twenty minutes…

* * *

><p>The bone-shaking blasts of <em>Titanic<em>'s whistle jolted him out of a dead slumber, wild-eyed and tangled in freshly starched sheets. His hand went instinctively to the weapon that was normally stashed beneath his pillow, and his panic escalated exponentially when he found nothing there. Lost in the haze between waking and sleeping, he staggered to his feet, squinting against the harsh white light that poured through the port hole…

_The port hole… on a ship…_

It took him longer than he cared to admit to connect the dots. To his credit, once he finally ascertained that he was in his private room onboard _Titanic_, the sudden, sinking realization came almost immediately on its heels: the ship's whistle blew promptly at noon. A quick glance at his watch only confirmed what he already knew: while he slept the morning away, the crew, cargo and passengers had been loaded, the anchors raised, all the last minute checks and re-checks of the engines, boilers, pumps, pipes and wires completed without him.

The ship was ready; _Titanic_ was on her way.

"_Shit!_"

Erik paused only long enough to slip on his coat and hat before tearing out of his room and slamming the door behind him. A handful of passengers in the corridor jumped out of his way with little exclamations of surprise as he went bowling past them with all the speed and precision of a cannon ball. Unwilling to wait for the elevators, he ducked into the nearest stairwell. His knees and ankles cracked and snapped in protest as he took the stairs two at a time, up five floors to the Boat Deck. At last he emerged, wheezing for breath, joints aching – but damned if he was going to let a little arthritis stop him from wringing Thomas Andrews' neck. He couldn't _believe_ he'd let him sleep this late! The ship was already in motion, lurching slowly out onto the channel while the passengers hung off her railings, waving to their loved ones down on the dock.

It didn't take Erik long to find the burly Irishman among the throngs of people – his jolly, booming laugh carried easily across the deck. Unfortunately, Andrews caught sight of Erik in his peripheral vision, and raised his hands over the crowd as if greeting a prodigal child.

"Ah, if 'tain't our very own Mr. Turner himself!" he said jovially, taking Erik by the shoulder once he got close enough. "Gentlemen, it is my very great pleasure to introduce you to one of the finest naval architects Belfast has ever seen—"

Erik barely had a chance to open his mouth in protest before a sudden, deafening series of cracks rang out like gunfire somewhere beyond the port side of the ship. There was a tense pause of silence in which everyone on deck froze, listening. Then, from that same place somewhere beyond the ship came a sudden chorus of shrieks, and suddenly all the passengers watching from _Titanic_'s port side railings began to point and gasp in horror as well. With a furrowed brow, Erik strode briskly over to the rail to see for himself what the commotion was about.

He felt his heart leap up into his throat at the sight that greeted him.

As _Titanic _made her way down the channel, she swept past two other, smaller ocean liners. Beside the mammoth new ship, they looked like mere toy boats bobbing on the water. Evidently, the undertow churned up by _Titanic_'s propellers had been too much for the _SS New York_ – the steel cables anchoring her in place had snapped straight through (_The gunshot sounds_, Erik realized), and the ocean liner was now being drawn, swiftly and surely, right at them.

In about fifty feet, the smaller ship would crash head-on into _Titanic_'s port side.

Suddenly, everyone around him was running and shouting. Andrews had disappeared amidst a swarm of passengers and officers of varying ranks, each scrambling to prepare for what seemed to be an unavoidable collision. Onboard the smaller _SS New York _there seemed to be an even bigger panic; the crew was running about like so many ants, draping mats over the side of the boat in a vain attempt to soften the impact. Several tugboats had begun to charge forward in a desperate attempt to latch on to the smaller ship and pull her back. Erik felt his mouth go dry – they weren't going to make it. The _New York_ drew dangerously close… _forty feet… thirty… twenty five…_

"Full astern!" came Captain Smith's urgent order from _Titanic_'s bridge.

_Twenty feet… fifteen… ten…_

Erik gripped the railing with white knuckles, bracing himself for impact. In those fleeting seconds, he found himself calculating the inevitable damage – at least one watertight compartment would be breached by _New York_'s stern, and more likely two. His bulkheads would save _Titanic_ by the skin of her teeth. They could drag her, limping, back to the dry docks for months of severe, expensive repairs. It would be a nightmare for the White Star Line – rebooking all the passengers on alternate ships, making formal apologies to all the powerful and wealthy patrons onboard, offering thousands in refunds…

And certainly, it would be an unthinkable embarrassment for Ismay. The press would be only too happy to sink their fangs into him, and how glorious – simply _glorious_ – it would be to watch him writhe! Perhaps this, at last, would force the haughty bastard to eat his words, pull his head out of his arse, and raise the bulkheads to their proper height…

_Eight feet… six… _

Suddenly, violently,_ Titanic_'s engines surged in reverse, churning the dark water up against the oncoming ship. The _New York_ slowed in its advance, bobbing perilously close to the larger ship's hull. Within four feet of collision, one of the tugboats finally caught up to the ocean liner and tossed her a line. The little tugboat heaved, _Titanic_'s engines roared, and slowly, impossibly, the _New York_ drew back to safety.

All at once, a thunderous round of applause erupted through the breathless silence. _Titanic_'s passengers and crew were ecstatic with relief, grateful for their quick-thinking captain, while those watching from the docks jumped up and down, waving handkerchiefs and cheering riotously.

Erik stood at the rail, watching the scene through cold yellow eyes. As the adrenaline died in his veins, age-old bitterness bubbled up in its place. He'd been so close! Four feet from seeing Ismay tuck his tail like the dog he was. Four feet from seeing his original designs implemented the way they should have been from the beginning. That collision would have been his chance.

Andrews reappeared beside him a moment later, holding one hand to his heart and grinning from ear to ear. "Whew!" he cried. "That was a little _too_ close! See now, Turner, I weren't kiddin' you about that premonition. Another two meters and we would have needed those bulkheads of yours."

"Yes," Erik grumbled. "Not even out of the channel, and already this ship is more trouble than she's worth."

The Irishman laughed airily. "Bah. Learn to take a compliment, y' old codger! I'm only sayin' it's a good thing you're here. I don't know what we'd do without you."

Finally releasing his hold on the rail, Erik turned to glower at his well-meaning companion. "Sink," he said dryly, and stalked off in search of a good strong brandy.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: If this chapter felt a little bit technical to you, don't worry – I just needed to give you guys some background information regarding Erik's role on Titanic before we get further enmeshed in the plotline. To be honest, I couldn't tell you which side of a boat is starboard or port prior to writing this, so I'm certainly not a "ship person" myself, haha.**

**More on the watertight compartments and bulkheads, if you're interested: www (dot) titanic-titanic (dot)com / titanic_watertight_compartments (dot) shtml **

**And if any of you are thinking, "Hey! That near-catastrophic collision with the SS New York wasn't in the _movie!_"… well, you're right. I guess they thought it wasn't that important in the grand scheme of things. It truly did happen, though, and many of the Titanic survivors later remarked that they thought it was a bad omen from the start.**

**An actual photograph of the New York's close shave with Titanic: www (dot) lostliners (dot) com/content/flagships/Titanic/Images/southham_ny2 (dot) html  
><strong>

**You ****learn something new every day, right? ;) **

**Reviews are lovely, and much appreciated! **


	5. Thicker than Blood

**A/N: For the record, "Gustave" is homage to the only canon name given to Christine's father. I always assumed that if she ever had a son, she would name him after Daddy Daaé (in _Evergreen_, it was one of the two boys names Christine had narrowed it down to, and that was long before LND premiered). Now that "Gustave" has such stigma attached, I would have changed the character's name if the real historical person's story did not play so heavily into my plot. Ah well. If the name bothers you, I apologize, but trust me that it's necessary. If it doesn't bother you, please carry on your merry way and ignore all of this. ;)**

**This is a long one – lots to learn about this rather complex individual. **

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><p>"<em>He carried his childhood like a hurt warm bird held to his middle-aged breast." – <em>Herbert Gold

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><p><em><strong>Wednesday, April 10th, 1912<strong>_

_**En route to Cherbourg, France**_

The rhythmic rumble and sway of the train was lulling, almost hypnotic in its steady progression out of the city. Once the stifling concrete of Paris gave way to rolling countryside, Gustave leaned forward to rest his forehead against the windowpane, watching the world unfold in the delicate green of new spring.

He didn't want to leave.

Absently, he touched his fingertips to the glass. He only had half-formed memories left of this place, warmed by the nostalgic haze of childhood:

_Laughing blue eyes, a swing hung from the bough of a large oak tree, iced tea on a white wrap-around porch, chasing fireflies through knee-high grass… _

They were the happiest memories of his life. But the cold march of time seemed intent upon stripping him of those lingering scraps of comfort; the harder Gustave tried to hold on to them, the faster they seemed to erode in his mind's eye. He couldn't remember his bedroom any more, or the names of the children he used to play with. He was beginning to forget what his father looked like. The loss forged a quiet desperation in him, a longing beyond the scope of words. Here, in the rolling fields of his childhood home, it simmered almost to the point of physical pain.

The French countryside beckoned him home with the maddening whispers of '_what if_?' He'd nearly succumbed to it, too; he had even gone so far as to purchase a train ticket to Chagny. Standing on the platform with the little slip of paper trembling in his hand, he'd mulled over the endless possibilities of his journey. Perhaps there were relatives still alive who could help him answer the endless questions about his heritage, his identity. He could go looking for them, dig through old church records and court documents. Perhaps he could even find his boyhood home, with the white porch and the oak tree…

In the end, he'd crumpled the ticket and walked away. He couldn't do it – he couldn't risk tainting those happy wisps of memory he had left by subjecting them to the cold, harsh lens of adulthood. Deep down, he knew there was nothing left for him there but ghosts.

The train car's door clicked and scraped open, breaking Gustave from his private thoughts. He raised heavy eyes to see his best friend Tom slide into their private car, balancing a glass of ginger ale in one hand, a cappuccino in the other, a biscotti between a thumb and forefinger, and a saltine cracker in his mouth.

"Piffed thif up for you," Tom said thickly, leaning sideways to hand the cappuccino and biscotti to Gustave. Once his hand was free, he shoved the rest of his cracker into his mouth, plopped down on the bench opposite his friend, and put his feet up. "You're welcome."

"Thanks." Gustave used the tip of the biscotti to make swirling patterns in the cappuccino's foam, mindlessly doodling until the coffee grew flat and the biscuit dissolved into an unappetizing, clotted stump. With a sigh, he set both aside, and glanced up to see Tom watching him with a worried expression.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked gently, with the air of a physician probing a tender wound.

Gustave twitched a shoulder in what he hoped was a good impression of nonchalance. "Nothing to talk about."

Unfortunately, his response only served to deepen the lines on his friend's face. Tom knew better than to push him, though; instead, he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Gustave accepted one gratefully, and leaned forward so his friend could light it for him. He inhaled deeply, taking comfort from the familiar burn of smoke down his nose and throat. There was something inherently relaxing in the habitual act, and he fell back against the seat cushions as he blew out a controlled stream of grey, closing his eyes and allowing his head to loll with the rumble of the train.

It was a sorry state of affairs that artificial comforts like this were the glue currently holding his life together. Fortunately, Tom was always there to dab a little more on when the edges began to crack. But then, that wasn't giving him enough credit. The truth of the matter was that if it hadn't been for Tom, Gustave would never even have survived to adulthood.

His first year of American boarding school had been a living hell. The other boys teased him mercilessly for his foreign accent and faltering English, while the teachers whipped him for laziness, when truly he did not understand the lessons. There was no rest, no escaping the day-to-day torment. Everyone hated him, and he'd grown to hate them back. Eventually, he had stopped trying to please anyone, since it didn't seem to make any difference one way or another. He began to talk back to his professors, he met his peers' insults word for word and blow for blow, and by the end of the first term he was sitting alone in the dormitory on Christmas Eve, trying to figure out whether his necktie would hold his weight if he hung himself from the closet rail.

He was nine, at the time.

He had chickened out of suicide that night, but he knew it would only have been a matter of time if Thomas Drake Martinez Cardeza had not transferred in to the Academy that January. From the moment he laid eyes on "the new boy" Gustave had known there was something different about him. Tom strutted around the campus with an air of unshakable self-esteem. He laughed at the peers who attempted to bully him into submission, and fired off such scathing, witty comebacks that the boys deemed him more trouble than he was worth and went back to terrorizing more accessible targets. The professors adored him, the hall monitors made exceptions for him, and the rest of the boys wanted to be friends with him. Within two weeks of his arrival, Tom had secured his place as the undisputed prince of the Academy. And, for his part, Gustave hated him as much as he hated everyone else at the school.

That was, until they happened to bump into one another – literally – in a hallway one morning on the way to their lessons. Gustave's books and papers spilled everywhere, and he dropped to his knees with a groan as he attempted to sweep them all up again. He'd assumed Tom had purposely tripped him, just as the other boys made a habit of doing. Imagine his surprise when Tom immediately fell to his knees beside him and helped him to collect his items, apologizing profusely… in _French!_

The look of utter shock on his face had caused Tom to laugh, but not unkindly. He explained that he and his mother had spent the past year on safari in Africa, hunting lions and elephants and hippos and all other manner of ferocious beasts. The locals spoke French, so he picked it up gradually over a few months. He added that he was anxious to continue his practice, as he and his mother planned to go back to Africa over their summer holiday. He asked very humbly if Gustave might tutor him after evening lessons if he paid him five cents a week. Gustave had thought it over for a minute, and asked instead if Tom might tutor him in English in exchange for French lessons.

The agreement was made, and the connection was immediate. Once Gustave and Tom joined ranks, none of the bullies dared touch him again, and as his English improved, so did his grades and his relations with the professors. By June he was making high marks on all of his examinations, and the troubles that nearly caused him to take his own life at Christmastime were all but a distant nightmare. He loved school, and he loved Tom, and he dreaded going back home to his mother and stepfather as if he were a death row inmate preparing to walk to his execution. On the last night of school he stayed up in tears, begging the morning to hold off. When Tom woke up to find him in such a frightful state, he immediately invited Gustave to come with him and his mother to Africa for the holiday. There was no hesitation on Gustave's part; together, they drafted a counterfeit letter from his mother offering her permission for him to go, claiming it would be a wonderful "cultural experience."

Lady Cardeza, while surprised, was thrilled to meet the "famous Gustave my son has told me so much about," and graciously took him under her wing for the duration of the holiday. Meanwhile, Gustave's mother, insipid sheep that she was, did not protest when he sent her a letter telling her he was going away to Africa to hunt lions and elephants and hippos, and he would be back when he damned well felt like it. His stepfather was probably thrilled to be rid of him; the feeling was mutual. That summer abroad was the best of Gustave's life, and he and Tom had made arrangements to spend every sequential summer in the same manner, traveling to whichever exotic destination pleased them best.

When the boys were fifteen they dropped out of school entirely, persuading Lady Cardeza that a private tutor would be more than sufficient, and that they could certainly bring such a tutor with them on their cruise to the Mediterranean. She obliged them, of course; Tom was her only child, and she seemed incapable of telling the charming boy "no." They had been on the move ever since, traveling the globe in luxury and leisure. The Cardezas were Gustave's family now, and on more than one occasion he considered changing his last name to theirs, making the tie official.

As it was, Gustave's surname on this _particular_ trip was the product of an ill-placed bet in Cairo. He and the Cardezas had spent the past few months working their way up through their old favorite spots in Africa, big-game hunting, as usual. They ended their safari in Egypt's capital two weeks ago, and he and Tom had gone out on a late night celebratory binge at one of the more disreputable bars in the area. Somehow – he was still a bit hazy on the details – they'd ended up in an all night poker match at a table with all sorts of riffraff that had stumbled onto the scene. In the end, it had come down to Tom, himself, and a Moroccan thug with black teeth. The Moroccan folded, finally, but Tom was too drunk on cheap beer and pride to let the game go. On the last hand, he offered an ultimatum to Gustave: they'd split the winnings 50/50 regardless, but whoever won would get a solid month of voluntary servitude from the other. Gustave called him a crazy drunk and prepared to bow out, but the jeers from those watching and the obnoxious smirk on his best friend's face pushed him stupidly forward. He laid his hand down – two pair – and waited. With a hoot and a holler, Tom threw down a flush, and proceeded to strut like a peacock for the rest of the night.

It was a stupid game and a stupid bet, and Gustave had banked on the fact that Tom would wake up in the morning too hung-over to remember the previous night's dealings. How wrong he'd been! By noon Tom had assembled a three-page list of things he wanted Gustave to do for him, including a foot massage, booze on command, and laying a red carpet down every time he wished to enter or exit a car. As if that weren't mockery enough, he'd also come up with a new last name for Gustave for the duration of their journey: Lesueur, a French name meaning, as he quoted with a smirk, _"_either an occupational name for someone in the service of a great lord, or a derisive nickname for a person who gave himself airs and graces." Tom had a good laugh about that, and thought himself quite clever. He'd even gone so far in his little prank as to book the rest of Gustave's journey under the name Lesueur, and marked his occupational status as _manservant to Mr. Cardeza_.

Gustave was not amused. He had no intention of honoring a bet he'd made while too drunk to see straight, let alone think logically. He'd been about to tell Tom as much when suddenly his friend had doubled over and vomited on the hotel's expensive Oriental rug. With a roll of his eyes, he'd helped Tom back over to the bed, given him a wastebasket to throw up in and a cold washcloth for his head, and went in search of a maid to clean up the mess. He hadn't thought anything more of it, dismissing the episode as a normal remnant of a night spent drinking too much.

As it turned out, though, Tom's condition never eased up. His stomach was especially sensitive – ginger ale, plain bread, rice and saltine crackers had been the extent of his diet for the past two weeks. His face had grown sallow, and the circles under his eyes darkened. Of course, each of them had picked up their fair share of foreign diseases over the years; it came as part of the territory when living as world travelers. Nobody was particularly concerned with a bug that seemed no worse than the average stomach flu, and they had continued on to Hungary to visit the manor house and hunting lodge Tom had bought some years ago. His wife, Mary, was staying there, and he suggested paying her a visit since they had a few days before they were to return to America on a ship out of Cherbourg, France.

His mother had been none too pleased about the detour. Lady Cardeza _detested_ her daughter-in-law, and not only because Tom's marriage had been a complete secret, which she had only discovered through reading an article in the _New York Times_. She and Mary competed viciously for his attention, and the stress began to take its toll on poor Tom. His symptoms had worsened, and he developed a cramping stomach pain that would not be alleviated by any medication they had on hand. Weary of the bickering, he'd conceded to his mother that perhaps it would be best to carry on to France. He'd kissed his wife good-bye, and they were off again.

During their trip to Paris from Hungary, Gustave _did_, in fact, wind up tending to his ailing friend like a manservant, though not because of any silly bet. He fetched water and aspirin, helped Tom to get to the restroom, and stayed up nights holding his friend's hand when the pain was too bad to sleep. Fortunately, the bug seemed to be working its way out of Tom's system, slowly but surely, for he felt much better by the time they reached the Gare de l'Est. He could stand and walk without trouble, and his nausea spells were fewer and farther in between. More often than not, he had begun to wave away offers of help.

Only now, as they chugged steadily toward France's northern coast, did Gustave finally buckle beneath the crushing grief of a childhood lost violently and suddenly to him all those years ago. It was remarkable how swiftly the tides turned; how quick Tom was to surrender his own comfort to attend to his friend's needs. The moment he caught wind of Gustave's misery, he resumed his longtime role of shining knight and defender. Ill though he was, he'd shoved Gustave out of the way when he'd attempted to go get refreshments from the dining car, and insisted upon doing it himself. When that hadn't worked, he'd moved swiftly for the next line of comfort in a pack of cigarettes. It was about as effectual as pressing a handkerchief to a mortal, gushing wound. Still, Gustave knew that if he didn't visibly perk up, Tom would worry himself ragged on his behalf. With a flash of guilt, he thrust his private grief back down under lock and key, deep within him where it belonged. He took a long drag on his cigarette, and looked up at Tom with the most convincing smile he could muster.

"Still got that deck of cards on you, brother?"

Tom quirked an eyebrow, and pulled it from his back pocket. "I do indeed. Intent upon losing again so soon, o trusty manservant?"

"Yeah, you'd best laugh it up now, pal, because in a minute you'll be licking my boots clean."

Tom grinned as he fanned the cards in a brisk shuffle. "Nothing like the taste of leather and giraffe dung in the morning."

The banter came fluidly, gentle insults batted between them with the ease that came with years of familiarity. Soon enough, each friend was demanding "best out of three hands," and then "best of five," until they were each so wrapped up in the card games, enjoying one another's company, that they'd completely forgotten the violent troubles that ailed them. Outside the window the sun blazed a golden path across the sky, and before they knew it, the squeal of metal brakes announced their approach into Cherbourg.

Their ship was an hour late in her arrival at port; evidently there had been some sort of delay in getting out of the harbor on the other side of the English Channel. Lady Cardeza sniffed at that, insisting that she had paid far too handsomely to be met with inconvenience so early on in the trip, and on her _birthday_ to boot. The staff scrambled to make amends, offering a full complimentary supper at the most elegant seafood establishment along the water. Gustave had no appetite, and Tom could not stomach any more than the bread served in advance of the meal, and so they simply sat across from the Lady and her maid, nodding and mumbling politely where appropriate. From their window overlooking the water, they finally saw, nearing 6:00, their ship glide onto the horizon. Even from a distance, she was a thing of beauty – a glittering palace set against a brilliant pink sunset. Since he'd first taken up traveling with the Cardezas, extraordinary luxury had been the standard for Gustave; even still, his breath caught in his throat at the sight of the "unsinkable" _RMS Titanic_.

Perhaps, he thought, the trip back home wouldn't be so terrible after all.

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><p><strong>AN: With the conclusion of this chapter, you have been officially introduced to all of the key players in this story from here on out. For the most part, I will be keeping to a steady POV rotation of Erik, Christine, Gustave, rinse, repeat. There might be cause once or twice for me to switch that around, but generally speaking, that's the pattern you can look for. And while I know – I _know_ – you guys will be tempted, at first, to tap your toes impatiently for the E & C chapters, be advised that Gustave is just as central to this story as they are, so you'd do well to pay close attention to his stuff too. (An analogy: how much of _Evergreen_ would you have understood if you skipped all the Raoul and Emily chapters?)**

**I suppose I should take a moment to say that the Cardezas (and Gustave Lesueur) were actual people, who were actual passengers on Titanic, and actually went big-game hunting on safari, stopped in Hungary, etc. I'm walking a delicate line here by incorporating real lives into fiction, and so I should make a huge disclaimer: there are a few eyewitness accounts, newspaper articles and biographies written about these people (very little about Gustave, though, which was hugely helpful), so I'm going off of bits and pieces I've read, but _mostly _my own imagination. AKA Don't sue me, please!**

**My infinite thanks to SquidPire, who has graciously taken up the reins as beta for this fic, while my darling Flora Grey is occupied as a new mommy. :)  
><strong>

**Also, thank you so much to those of you – my faithful crew – who are so good about leaving me feedback. You light up my day and offer such encouragement!  
><strong>


	6. Silent and Resigned

"_The end comes when we no longer talk with ourselves. It is the end of genuine thinking and the beginning of the final loneliness. The remarkable thing is that the cessation of the inner dialogue marks also the end of our concern with the world around us. It is as if we noted the world and think about it only when we have to report it to ourselves."_ - Eric Hoffer

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><p><em><strong>Wednesday, April 10th, 1912<strong>_

_**RMS TITANIC**_

Christine perched on the edge of her bed, staring at the floor through glassy eyes as she twisted a pearl bracelet around her wrist. Every few minutes the indistinct muttering from the adjoining room would cause her to blink and look up expectantly until silence resumed again. Her husband had been fretting before a full-length mirror for the better part of an hour, driving himself to distraction over every minute detail of his appearance. He seemed at last to have settled on an outfit to his liking, and had moved on to the painstaking task of slicking the sparse, mousy wisps of hair across his head in a vain attempt to hide his receding hairline.

When fifteen minutes passed without any indication that they were closer to being ready to go down to supper, Christine rose soundlessly from the bed and began to wander around the room in search of something to pass the time. Her fingers skirted over the bedspread, the polished mahogany armoire, the back of an armchair. The room was full of fine things; no detail had been spared in the assembly of _Titanic_'s first class cabins. Had the port window not given away their presence on a ship, she might have thought herself in one of the grand hotels of London or New York.

She paused before the fireplace, lifting her palms to its inviting warmth. The cabin was maintained at a perfectly comfortable temperature, and still Christine felt chilled. Fifty had come and gone, and with it her circulation, it seemed. She was always cold.

Beside the fireplace was an elegant Louis XVI desk, carved from the same mahogany wood as the rest of the furnishings. Christine sat lightly in the chair before it, content to linger close to the fire's warmth. She studied the simple, neoclassical design of the desk for a moment before opening a drawer curiously. A quick peek inside revealed that it was fully stocked with all manner of writing materials, including a thick stack of paper upon which was stamped the official _Titanic _letterhead. She lifted a calligraphy pen for examination; it, too, had the ship's name emblazoned in gold. It occurred to her that it might be a prudent use of time to write a letter, saying that she and Walter had arrived safely onboard, were very pleased with their accommodations, and expected to arrive home on either Tuesday or Wednesday of the following week, depending on how good of time the ship made in her maiden crossing. She drew out a piece of the thick stationery, took up the calligraphy pen again, and began to write:

_Dear—_

With a cold stab of realization, Christine slowly set the pen back down again. _Dear who? _How quickly she'd managed to forget. Her last friend in the world was no longer speaking to her. There was no-one left to write.

She rested her forehead on the heel of her hand, watching the ink dry on that single word, knowing that it would trail off indefinitely, waiting for a name that would never follow. What a miserable existence, she thought. Kindly, she held the paper out to the fire and watched as the edges curled and smoked.

A thought came, unbidden, to the forefront of her mind, stirred to consciousness by the union of fire and paper. Her eyes narrowed pensively, and she rose and went over to the opposite corner of the parlor, where a steward had stacked her personal trunks earlier that morning. She lifted the old leather latches on the biggest trunk and began to sort methodically through its contents. After a bit of digging, she found what she was looking for: she'd stashed Madame Giry's old shoebox haphazardly in the bottom of the trunk and piled several other items on top of it – out of sight and out of mind. It was squashed now, the edges buckled outwards in sharp angles. She pushed at them in a futile attempt to restore the cardboard to its former shape, and then stopped herself as she remembered that it didn't particularly matter, as she had planned to burn it all along.

Taking the old shoebox between cold fingers, she strode back over to the fireplace. In the dancing golden light, she could just make out the note Madame Giry had attached to the box: _For Christine, in the hope that she might finally understand. _Undoubtedly there was a letter inside lecturing her on her poor life choices, all the crushed hopes and dreams her foster mother had had for her, all the wrong turns she could no longer take back. As if she needed reminding.

Even still, she hesitated before the grate, the box extended over the fire. A single thought stayed her hand from disposing of the thing as she knew she should: if the box contained a letter, as she believed it did, it would be written in Madame Giry's hand. As Christine read it, it would be Madame Giry's voice in her head, speaking to her. And even that – even the echo of a ghost – was better than being alone.

Gradually, almost imperceptibly, her fingers tightened over the edges, and she drew the old box back in toward her breast. There was no sound but her breathing and the snap of a log in the hearth as she lowered herself back into the desk chair, setting the box in her lap. With trembling hands she untied the twine holding the shoebox shut, and gingerly lifted the worn lid.

A little gasp, no louder than a whisper, drew past her lips as she peered inside. There was not only one letter, but dozens – hundreds, maybe – all written on very old, yellowed paper, folded in thirds, and tied neatly with a faded pink ribbon. For a moment she was almost afraid to touch them, fearing the parchment to be so fragile that it might tear at the slightest movement. But then, that was absurd, she decided; Madame Giry would not have given the box to her if she did not intend her to read whatever was contained in those letters. Her hands hovered uncertainly over the package for another moment before she set to work on the ribbon, plucking at the knot with delicate fingerwork befitting an archaeologist. Gradually, she managed to work the stiffened strip of satin off of the package and set it aside. Barely breathing, she lifted the very first letter from the stack, and carefully, carefully, unfolded the brittle paper…

To her continued surprise, there was only one line printed on the page, and the handwriting was not one she recognized. The letter simply read:

_Annie,_

_Will you meet me at our spot after rehearsal to-night? I have something for you. _

Christine flipped the page over, looking for more. There was nothing; not even a signature. Confused, she set the first letter aside and picked up the next. In that same handwriting was written another single line:

_Annie,_

_You left your satchel behind last night. I went in and put it on your nightstand while you were at breakfast. No-one saw me. I hope you don't mind._

Christine's brow knitted tightly as she puzzled over the simple notes. The lack of decorum suggested that a child had written them, but what child in their right mind would ever have dared to address the ballet mistress in such an informal manner? It took her a moment to arrive at the conclusion that, strange as it seemed, Madame Giry had once been a child too. There was no date on these letters, but they were obviously the oldest in the stack, judging by the frailty and yellow tint of the paper. But that was stranger still… why on earth would Madame Giry want her to have an old stack of correspondences between herself and a childhood friend? Spurred on by curiosity, Christine went to pick up the next letter, but found it snatched from her hand before she'd raised it an inch.

"What's this?" Walter demanded. She started, not having heard him come up behind her. Even as she gave a little jolt, she knew how it would be interpreted by her habitually suspicious husband. She composed her features as quickly as she could, but one glance at him was enough to know that the damage had already been done.

"A stack of old correspondences," she answered mildly. "Meg gave them to me."

Walter's eyes narrowed as they scanned the sparse letter he had snatched away from her. "Who is Annie? What is this nonsense?"

Looking down through her eyelashes like a chastised child, Christine said, "I believe it was Meg's mother, Antoinette, but I can't be sure. I've only just begun to read them myself."

Walter studied her over the edge of the paper, looking unconvinced. "And what business is it of yours to be reading through letters that don't belong to you?"

She froze at the accusatory tone, drawing instinctively, protectively, into herself. Of course, she knew Walter had no interest in preserving Madame Giry's privacy. It was strictly a matter of control; he was displeased that he had not been told about this box of letters in the first place. If there was one thing Walter would not stand for, it was secrecy – in his book, it was synonymous with sedition. She knew that to diffuse his temper would require complete, unquestioning submission, and a stroke of luck. If he was in a foul mood to start, there was nothing to be done but wait out the storm.

"It isn't," she said, her voice barely a whisper. Without raising her eyes, she handed the entire shoebox over to her husband. "Meg must have given me the wrong box by mistake."

She held her breath, and waited.

Walter perused the letter in his hand again, as if to verify that what she'd said was true, and then gave a sadistic little bark of laughter. "God, this one's not even signed. I keep telling you, Meg's going bosh in the head, just like her old goat of a mother." It was all Christine could do not to wince as Walter folded the letter in his hand up sloppily, tossed it into the shoebox, and dropped the entire package unceremoniously in the open trunk. Once he'd latched it, straightened up, and checked his reflection in the vanity mirror one last time, he extended his arm to Christine. "All right, then. Shall we?"

She stood at once and laced her arm obediently through his, saying a silent prayer of thanks that luck had been on her side this time. Walter's anger had dissipated as quickly as it had come; indeed, as they strode along the B-deck promenade and down the Grand Staircase, he seemed practically giddy in anticipation of the evening. Despite John's absence, Christine knew her husband still viewed this trip as a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to rub elbows with some of the most influential men in the industrialized world. His arm was tensed and sweating against hers, and his eyes flitted anxiously over each face they passed, searching for the multimillionaires in the crowd.

They were fashionably late for dinner, but as they weren't meeting anyone, no one particularly took notice of their delayed entrance to the first class dining room. They paused in the doorway as a server dressed in white fetched their menus and directed them to a table for two. As they wove past the other tables, Christine glanced over and saw Walter's eyes grow progressively larger as he spotted one business tycoon after another. By the time they reached their table and took a seat, her husband had to pull the handkerchief from his breast pocket and mop at the beads of sweat that dotted his forehead. Once their server had taken their drink orders and departed, Walter leaned toward her across the table and hissed in a conspiratorial whisper, "Do you have any idea who is sitting directly behind you? _No_, don't look, don't look! That's Isidor Straus. He _owns the Macy's department store_." By the way he spoke, he might have been addressing the second coming of Christ.

Fortunately, the server returned at that moment with their ice water and a bottle of merlot, saving Christine from the task of mustering a sufficiently awed reaction. Walter ordered meals for the both of them, but the moment the server departed again, his gaze zeroed back in on Straus's table. Christine could almost see the wheels turning in her husband's head.

"All right, look, he's just finishing up his supper now. Afterwards I bet he'll sojourn to the smoking parlor with all the rest of them – yes, see, he's telling his wife." Suddenly Walter pushed back from the table with a scrape of his chair. His eyes never left Straus, but he flicked a wrist offhandedly at Christine. "Tell the server to send my supper up to the room, will you? If I go now I can probably manage to bump in to him right as he gets to the lounge…"

Before Christine could even swallow her mouthful of ice water and answer in the affirmative, her husband had disappeared into the crowd. She pursed her lips and straightened her shoulders, keenly aware of the questioning eyes turned upon her from neighboring tables. Alone and vulnerable at her table for two, she sat in silence until the server returned with the food. She relayed Walter's instructions in a hushed voice, and the man kindly made no further remark except to say, "Of course, madam."

The food was divine; there was lamb with mint sauce, new potatoes, steamed asparagus, and Waldorf pudding, all arranged artfully upon a china plate and accented with sprigs of fresh parsley. Her mouth watered as she tasted the first few bites, but still she could not shake the uncomfortable feeling that there were many sets of eyes upon her. She dared not look up to confirm it for herself. Instead, she set her fork on the edge of her plate, took a delicate sip of water, and dabbed her lips with her napkin. Ignoring the growling protests of her stomach, she slipped out from her seat at the table, intent upon making her exit quietly before the waiter could return to question her about the quality of her meal. Christine kept her eyes on the floor as she wound past the other tables, back toward the door she'd entered through just a few minutes prior. A startled cry hitched in her chest as she nearly collided head-on with another passenger coming in to the dining hall, and she jumped back, an apology already flying from her mouth.

"Oh, forgive me, I didn't se—"

The words caught in her throat, pinned with the precision of a knife, as she looked up into a pair of dreadfully familiar eyes.


	7. Mirrors

**A/N: I wanted to get this chapter written and posted today, so just a heads up that it hasn't been beta-read yet. All errors are therefore my own, though I've read over it a few times myself to make sure it looks correct. It's a short one, but very emotional.**

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><p>"<em>The fiercest anger of all, the most incurable,<br>Is that which rages in the place of dearest love."_  
>― Euripides<p>

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><p><em><strong>Wednesday, April 10th, 1912 <strong>_

_**RMS TITANIC**_

For a moment he could only stare at her in disbelief. He recognized her immediately, though time had whittled away at her with a cruel hand: the soft lines of youth had wasted away into sharp, skeletal angles; a crown of silver bled from her temples into the dark curls that had once been a source of pride; rings of bruised-looking skin hung beneath her eyes, lending her the appearance of perpetual exhaustion. Vaguely, he knew that the sight of her should have inspired a deep sense of satisfaction, of fulfilled justice. Instead, he felt as if he had plummeted from the ledge of a three-story building and landed flat on his back.

When at last he recovered his wits enough to speak, only a single, frostbitten word moved past his lips. "Mother."

Her ribs buckled inwards, as if the weight of his voice had struck her like a blow to the chest. What little color was left in her cheeks drained completely. Stone still and pale as the grave, she seemed more wraith than woman.

She said nothing.

A hard knot was rising in the back of Gustave's throat, and he swallowed viciously against it. So many years… he'd spent _so many years_ waiting for this moment. At night sometimes he would lie awake, rehearsing the scene in his mind – each time a different scenario, a different chance meeting point. He'd had his speech perfected by the time he was twenty five. It was witty, scathing, and always delivered with ice cold indifference. The punch line at the end was especially cutting; he worked on this the most, trying out different facial expressions, emphasizing different syllables until it sounded as good out loud as it did in his head.

This was his opportunity. The silence stretched on unbearably, begging to be filled with those confident, razor sharp words. Of course, now that he needed them, his mind had gone utterly, impossibly blank.

A high pitched noise caught somewhere in his throat, and suddenly he was laughing. It was all just so completely _absurd_. Giddiness crashed over him in waves, and he couldn't stop… he laughed until he choked, until his lungs burned, until tears were streaming from the corners of his eyes. His mother just stood there watching him, horrified.

_Of course she did. Hadn't she always?_

The thought was surprisingly liberating. It was not as difficult to choke out words between guffaws of laughter, and although the tone wasn't quite the acerbic one he had practiced, the words were close enough. "Nice to see you, too. You look well. No, that's a lie. I'm lying." He laughed even harder, bordering on hysteria. "But never mind that. You're here! Right here. Of all the ships in the world. My, my. Been a long time, hasn't it? What – twenty years? You'd probably forgotten that you even had a son. How silly of me, I should have introduced myself." He thrust his hand in her direction. "Gustave McAfee, at your service."

She shrank back slightly, her eyes never leaving his. By that point, others had begun to take notice of their little debacle; a few feet away, a doorman watched with a furrowed brow. He didn't intervene until Gustave put out his hand. Suddenly he took a step forward, addressing Christine in a firm, clear tone. "Is this gentleman bothering you, ma'am?"

The remark was sobering enough to turn Gustave's laughter into a harsh bark. "Hah! The story of my life!" he told the man dryly. As quickly as it had come, the giddiness was gone, replaced with the decades-old ache of raw anger. The lump in his throat was throbbing again, and he knew that to stay any longer would risk utter humiliation. Gathering what little scraps of pride he had left, he smoothed his hair, straightened the lapels of his jacket, and eyed his mother with the most convincing look of indifference he could muster. "Don't worry, Mother," he said. "_Titanic_ is the largest ship ever built. I'm sure there's no reason for us to have to bump into one another again."

With a curt nod to the doorman, Gustave turned on his heel and strode briskly across the deck. He kept his head held high and cocked slightly to one side, nodding occasionally at the other passengers whose gaze lingered on his face too long. He didn't dare glance sideways at his reflection on the glass surface of the windows; he didn't want to know how terrible he looked. He just kept walking, eyes straight ahead, counting his paces to keep his mind superficially occupied.

It seemed like hours that he wove blindly through whitewashed corridors and stairwells. The ship was a veritable maze in which Gustave was glad to lose himself. It was only when he staggered out into the open air that he realized he had run out of ship. He paused in the middle of the deck, listening to the roar of the ocean as it churned beneath _Titanic_'s propellers. The bitter night wind tugged at his sweat-dampened hair and clothes. Gustave raked trembling fingers across his head, slicking the dark waves back until his fingers entwined at the nape of his neck.

The sobs came in a sudden, violent fit, erupting out of him with enough force to send him to his knees. He pressed a fist to his mouth in a vain attempt to muffle the cries that the ocean drowned out anyway. For a while he surrendered himself completely, broken and shuddering with only the stars to see him.

It was sheer pride that propelled him back to his feet a few moments later. _A cigarette, _he told himself firmly. _Light a cigarette and get yourself together before somebody sees you._ Gustave swayed on unsteady legs for a moment as he fished in his pockets for the pack and staggered over to the railing, needing something to hold on to. Between the wind and his shaking hands, it was an effort just to get a cigarette out of its box, let alone to keep it pressed between his lips. As he searched in his pockets for the accompanying match book, the cigarette slid from his mouth down into the foaming water several stories below.

What little remained of his composure snapped. With a scream of rage, Gustave flung the entire pack out into the sea. He took violent fistfuls of his hair, pulling until the roots screamed in agony, ready to try anything to escape the image of empty brown eyes staring up into his own.

It was so much easier to hate his mother in theory than when she stood before him like a physical mirror of his soul.

Tom was not around to save him now, as Gustave teetered precariously on the edge of despair, shuddering and hopeless, wondering how far of a fall it would be to the black depths below...

A nudge on his shoulder nearly scared Gustave out of his skin. He grasped the railing with white knuckles and looked up with a start. Through tear-blurred eyes, the only thing he could make out were two glowing golden orbs trained directly on him.

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><p><strong>AN: Poor guy. :( I'm not just dangling this thread indefinitely, by the way; of course I will eventually reveal why on earth Gustave has such a problem with his mother. But needless to say he's got some lingering emotional issues, here.**

**I cannot begin to describe the feeling of writing this chapter on Wednesday April 11, 2012, when the chapter takes place on the RMS Titanic on Wednesday, April 10, 1912. Chills.**

**That said, I think you can all guess that this story is nowhere near completion. I have not lost interest in it at _all_, and I promise I will finish it. But it's not going to be done by Saturday. ;) The last few months I have been in survival mode, just barely managing to get everything done. I had NO days off, ever, for a while there – went directly from work to school without stopping for 10 weeks. Exhausted doesn't begin to cover it, ha. But my schedule this quarter is much easier, so knock on wood, I'll get more time to write.**

**On the upside, _Titanic_ is back out in theaters, people! Guess who is going tomorrow night? THAT should be good muse fuel. :)**


	8. Déjà Vu

"_His expression was absolutely inspiring… so familiar, so characteristic of something I had seen before! Where could it have been? What potent spell was there about this fellow to attract me?" _― J. Ross Browne

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><p><em><strong>Wednesday, April 10th, 1912<strong>_

_**RMS TITANIC**_

The night was alive beyond the pretentious glimmer of _Titanic_'s hull. Alone with the stars and the sea, Erik drank in open mouthfuls of frigid air. Below him, the Atlantic boiled black, the fathomless depths livid and frothing beneath the ship's propellers. Above, the heavens blazed in an effortless mockery of the portholes twinkling over the water. He needed this – the fresh air, the infinite – an escape from the stifling egotism that choked the first class decks.

He leaned his weight against the rail, his gaze trained on some imprecise, distant point on the water. There was music out here – a thunderous symphony for those who knew how to listen for it. Almost imperceptibly, his hand wavered, lilting with the timeless, unnamed melody. Lost in the wondrous strains, he felt, for a moment, almost at peace.

It wasn't to last, of course. He bristled from his reverie at the first sound of intrusion, his eyes snapping to its source. A figure – a man – was staggering his way toward the back of the ship, pitching forward in violent starts and stops. He didn't halt until the railing caught him in the gut, and even then he fell upon it with all of his weight, nearly toppling over the back of the boat. The motion seemed to knock the wind out of him, for he remained hunched over the railing for some time, his body heaving.

Erik's upper lip twitched in disgust. How typical; the very moment he managed to claim a private sanctuary aboard this godforsaken ship, it was invaded by a drunken wretch. His golden eyes rolled back in annoyance, and he let out a sharp sigh through his nose. Before he could decide what to do about the intrusion, a savage, animalistic cry erupted from the newcomer, setting Erik's hair on end. He looked up in mild alarm just in time to see the hunched figure pitch his pack of cigarettes out into the ocean, shaking like a madman. He caught only the briefest glimpse of the man in profile before the newcomer dropped his head into his hands, weeping openly. But even that quick glance was enough to jog Erik's memory with a vague hint of familiarity. Unsurprising, he supposed; half the population of Belfast had been involved, to some extent, with _Titanic_'s construction. His eyes flickered up and down the shuddering form for another moment before he looked away again, utterly disinterested.

A glance at his pocket watch revealed that it was just after 8 PM. His colleagues would still be in the smoking room, schmoozing with the wealthiest passengers onboard. Much to Andrews' chagrin, Erik had managed to wriggle out of his social obligations for the evening by instructing a steward to bring his supper directly to his room. He'd barely settled down at his desk with his supper tray when the passengers from Cherbourg had clattered their way noisily onboard. Of particular annoyance had been a rowdy young boy who could be heard all the way down the hall, skipping, stomping, and singing (painfully off-key), all the while turning a deaf ear to his nursemaid's exasperated commands. Naturally, the boy and his nurse had been assigned to the room _directly adjacent_ to Erik's. With a sneer, he had abandoned his untouched dinner and sulked off in search of blissful solitude. Unfortunately, with over 2000 passengers onboard _Titanic_, he found that privacy was an ever-evasive luxury. It was only at the stern, huddled against the icy wind, that he'd finally found himself alone.

For a while, anyway.

Erik glanced sideways, throwing a dirty look at the young man who had invaded his sanctuary. It was too early to return to his room; the child next door would not likely have exhausted himself to sleep yet. He could request a room change, but that would require him to seek out Hugh McElroy, the Chief Purser – a genial, witty man whom Erik didn't mind terribly, but who would likely be in the smoking room with the rest of their colleagues. Searching out another isolated part of the ship was an option, but even then he risked bumping in to someone he knew in the process.

Of course, there was an easier and much more appealing option: he could find a way to _remove_ the unwanted intruder from his presence. It wouldn't prove to be too difficult; in all likelihood, the man had only come out to the deck to compose himself in private. Once he learned that there had been an active spectator to his childish little tantrum, any man with a shred of dignity would be humiliated into a prompt retreat. It was as good an idea as any, Erik decided. Carefully schooling his features into a neutral expression, he stepped over to the shuddering figure and waited to be noticed. When it became apparent that the young man was too deep in thought to recognize his presence, Erik reached out and tapped him on the shoulder. The man leapt back as if he'd been stung, blinking furiously against his tears. His hand went to his chest, and he choked a bit on his own saliva.

"Jesus Christ!" He hastily wiped at his cheeks with the back of his sleeve, looking sufficiently mortified. "Shit, I, ah… I didn't realize anyone else was out here."

Erik barely heard him. His golden eyes had narrowed to slits – he knew this man, he was absolutely certain of it now. Beyond that, nothing made sense. If he had to venture a guess, he'd say the man was probably thirty-something, and his accent unmistakably American. Although his hair was mussed and his tie jerked loose, he was otherwise dressed to the nines in elegant eveningwear that pegged him immediately as a first-class passenger. For the life of him, Erik could not conjure up a single scenario in which he would have ever encountered the man before. He was a perfect stranger, yet everything about him screamed of déjà vu.

Perhaps even more unsettling was the fact that the recognition seemed to be distinctly one-sided. The other man's brown eyes flickered curiously over Erik's mask before he managed to arrange his features into polite neutrality. This had become the standard reaction of the upper class upon being introduced to the reputable Erik Turner; what had once been his most terrifying feature was now dismissed as little more than an artistic eccentricity. Still, the gesture was enough to signify to Erik that they had never been introduced before.

Lost in his own thought process, it took him a moment to realize that he had been spoken to. Belatedly, he answered, "I should have made my presence known to you sooner. My apologies."

"No, no, my fault. I'll just, ah…" The man gestured vaguely at the nearest corridor, his cheeks flushed in humiliation as he backpedaled toward C deck. Something about his expression stirred a flash of memory in the back of Erik's mind; once again, he was filled with the irrational conviction that he had met the man before. The answer was on the tip of his tongue, and he knew his mind wouldn't rest until he figured it out. Unsolved puzzles were a particularly loathsome pet peeve of his.

Erik's mind scrambled for a moment, searching for a suitable stall tactic. His initial scheme to get rid of the man was working entirely too well – he had mere seconds to find an equally effective plan to counter it. Fortunately, just as the man reached the middle of the deck, an idea occurred to him. "I couldn't help but notice that you… dropped your packet of cigarettes," he called. The man froze, and glanced back hesitantly at him. Keeping one eye on him, Erik reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a box of impeccably crafted, handmade Dominican cigars. "Perhaps this would serve as an acceptable substitute?"

The man's gaze fixated on the case, but after a moment he excused himself with a halfhearted, "That's very kind of you, sir, but I really should be getting back—"

"Of course," said Erik, biting back a triumphant smirk. One look at the man's hungry eyes told him he'd hit the bull's-eye; he needed a smoke, and badly.

With careful, deliberate movements, Erik thumbed open his pocket knife and cut a neat V-shaped notch into the end of a cigar, large enough to allow equal draw from the rim and the cleanly cut filler leaves. In a voice like velvet, he continued, "A pity, though. I've yet to find a cigar more luxurious than the Upmann. Flawless construction and consistency. Subtle undertones of coffee and cocoa, with a toasted cedar finish…" Unconsciously, the man had taken a step closer. "Whenever I need a moment to collect my thoughts, _this_…" He paused dramatically to draw the length of the cigar beneath his nose, inhaling its rich scent, "is a magnificent companion."

Either the man was extraordinarily desperate, or Erik had retained more manipulative prowess than he gave himself credit for, because the young man crossed straight back over to the railing, mumbling a vague dismissal of his prior engagement. Under the pretense of lighting the cigar tip with an even, clockwise burn, Erik took the opportunity to scrutinize the young man's features: the shape of his eyes, the set of his dimples, the strong chin and regal cheekbones… once again, shadows of half-formed memories played at the edge of Erik's consciousness, tormenting him, _infuriating_ him! _Why_ did he know this man so well?

Though his mind burned with questions, outwardly he managed to maintain a visage of perfect composure. As he leaned against the rail, carefully cutting a notch out of his own cigar, he remarked offhandedly, "You seem… somewhat familiar to me. Have we met?"

The man pressed his lips into a white line, shaking his head. "No, I don't believe I've had the pleasure, sir. Gus McAfee."

A muscle in Erik's jaw twitched irritably as he shook the man's hand. The name rang absolutely no bells in his head. If he did know anyone called McAfee, they were such a distant acquaintance that he couldn't even call up a single image of the person. That ruled out the idea that perhaps the young man was just a spitting image of his father. An Irish name, an American accent… it was a riddle plagued with dead ends.

"Erik Turner," he muttered, and turned a troubled gaze back out to the ocean. The rational portion of him knew that he was getting on in years – that his memories would naturally blur with time. Perhaps he was going senile, making nonexistent connections in his mind. He could not say with any certainty that dementia did not run in his family. Perhaps he was finally going mad. But still, _still… _his gut told him there was something missing, some critical piece of information that would draw the disjointed memories together. Every riddle had an answer, and if there was an answer to be had, here – if his intuition was correct – he would find it. He would simply have to do some digging, get more information out of the man… even if it meant submitting to one of the most loathsome activities Erik could possibly imagine: making small talk.

His muscles clinched reflexively at the very thought. How ironic; he'd taken such pains to avoid mingling with the first-class gentlemen in the smoking room, and yet here he was, swapping cigars with a bourgeois neophyte, playing at social niceties, preparing to launch into a conversation about such enthralling topics as the weather, business mergers, perhaps even the results of the most recent polo match…

He sucked in a long, deep draft on his cigar, feeling a headache coming on. This would not be pleasant.

"Chilly out tonight, isn't it?"

The young man – _Gus, was it?_ – bobbed his head once in acknowledgment. "Sure is." A painfully awkward stretch of silence ensued that only served to reinforce Erik's inherent loathing of forced conversation. Fortunately, his companion seemed to be much more well-versed in maintaining idle chitchat than Erik, for he added, "Much colder out on the water than it was at port."

Grateful for a lead, Erik pressed, "Did you come in at Southampton?"

"Cherbourg."

"Ah."

"You?"

"Belfast, actually."

"Oh?" The young man quirked an eyebrow, appearing genuinely interested. "Are you with the White Star Line?"

"I… contract with them on occasion," Erik answered, trying to keep the disdain from his tone.

"What do you do?"

"Mechanical design. Architecture. Depends on the project." Before the conversation became too focused on his own life, Erik asked, "Are you in the shipbuilding business?"

"No, no." Gus gave a self-deprecating little laugh. "Nothing that interesting. I hold a partial share in a few textile mills in Philadelphia."

"Mm. Anything I would have heard of?" Erik probed, searching for anything, any remote clue…

"Kentucky Blue Jeans?" the young man offered.

Erik wilted slightly. "Oh, of course," he fibbed. Then, before he could be caught in the lie, he pressed on, "Were you in France on business, then?"

"No, just passing through on our way back home. Actually, my companions and I have spent the past few weeks big-game hunting in Africa. Made a stop over in Hungary to visit my friend's hunting lodge, then on to Cherbourg from there."

"I see." The more the young man talked, the more Erik began to have the sinking feeling that perhaps senility was not out of the question. The last time he'd been to Hungary, he'd been staring out at the landscape through the bars of a gypsy caravan; he knew no one who lived or worked in Philadelphia, let alone manufacturing denim; and any knowledge he possessed of the African savannah was derived from the articles in his _Encyclopedia Brittanica _collection. Perhaps he was truly grasping at straws, trying to make sense of a riddle that never existed in the first place.

While Erik attempted to figure out a way to bow out of the conversation gracefully before he embarrassed himself further, Gus surprised him with a candid confession. "Listen, I, ah… I'm sorry about that little display you had to witness just now. I honestly didn't think anyone else would be out here at this time of night."

Erik eyed him up and down once, and then answered, "I don't blame you. It's a rare breed of man who seeks solitude on the first night of a cruise."

"Yes, well." The young man's tone took on a decidedly bitter edge, and he blew a hard stream of smoke out into the air. "Sometimes solitude is preferable to the present company." After a beat of silence, he looked up, horrified, and amended, "I don't mean _you_, 'present company,' I mean… _previous_ 'present company.' Past company."

"I knew what you meant," Erik assured him, the ghost of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. Gus let out a sigh of mixed relief and exasperation, and dropped his forehead into the palm of his free hand.

"She's just… infuriating. I don't know why I expect her to change; she never does."

Erik glanced at him sideways, curious if nothing else. "Your wife?"

Gus raised his eyes miserably. "My mother."

The raw, searing pain behind the word struck Erik like a lightning bolt to the chest. Golden eyes snapped up to meet brown. Reflected in the glassy surface, all he could see was an angry, terrified child.

"_Erik, I've had quite enough of this silly game now. If you don't tell me what you want straightaway, you will have nothing at all…" _

Gus must have seen the horror on his face, for he suddenly shook his head, as if he had remembered himself. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm telling you any of this." He was retreating again, slowly pulling back toward C deck. Before he knew what he was doing, Erik reached out and caught the young man's shirt sleeve.

"No!" he managed, surprised by the conviction of his voice. "Please, don't be." His eyes locked again with the young man's; he hoped they would convey what words would not. "I… understand. I understand very well."

Slowly, very slowly, the tension drained from Gus's shoulders. After a while, he gave a little nod, and came back to stand with Erik at the railing.

Neither of them said anything else that night.

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><p><strong>AN: Blatant Kay-ism there, for those who were unfamiliar with the reference. Oh, Madeleine.**

**Anyway… a little ironic, this unlikely companionship, hmm? I'd love to hear what you guys are thinking right about now! All I can say is that Erik had better watch his tongue on the commiseration front. It might come back to bite him later. ;)**


	9. Merited Shame

**A/N: Some crass language and disturbing themes in this one, folks. The story's rated T for a reason, and this chapter probably falls on the high side of that rating.**

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><p>"<em>With memory set smarting like a reopened wound, a man's past is not simply a dead history, an outworn preparation of the present: it is not a repented error shaken loose from the life: it is a still quivering part of himself, bringing shudders and bitter flavors and the tinglings of a merited shame<em>." ― George Eliot

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><p><em><strong>Friday, June 5th, 1885<strong>_

_**Cobb County, Georgia**_

_Morning had broken like a fever – stifling, stagnant, the moist heat undisturbed by even the faintest breath of wind. By midday, shimmering waves rose from the sun-baked earth, blearing the line between land and sky. Christine had spent the afternoon slumped lifelessly in an old rocking chair, watching the horizon until her head swam from the effort. Beside her, a sweating glass of sweet tea dripped onto the wicker tabletop. In moments when the heat grew unbearable, she would allow herself a measured sip, and then smear the condensation across her neck and brow. _

_She barely had the energy to turn her head when the telltale crunch of tired little boots dragged up the dirt drive. It was all she could do to force a thin, strained smile when the screen door clattered open to reveal her eight year old son. Gustave's dark curls were matted with sweat, and he breathed heavily through open, parched lips. The moment he stepped inside, he immediately kicked off his Oxfords and sweat-soaked stockings, discarding them haphazardly in the middle of the doorway._

"Maman,"_ he whined, dropping his satchel onto the pile with a thud._ "Il fait trop chaud."

"_In English, dear," Christine corrected him mechanically. _

_With a groan, the little boy staggered over to her and dropped to the floor at her feet, arms and legs sprawled out like an overheated cat. "It is too hot," he amended._

"D'accord_," she said, not even noticing her own slip. "How was school?"_

"_Fine." _

"_What did you learn?"_

"_Nothing."_

_Her brow furrowed. "Is it difficult to understand the instructor?"_

"_No," he lied unconvincingly. Before she could open her mouth to investigate further, Gustave propped himself up on one elbow, stretching out a hand toward her iced tea. _"Puis-je boire une petite gorgée?"

_Too weary to insist that he repeat himself in English – particularly when she was not certain of the correct phrase herself – she simply nodded. Gustave crawled to his feet at once; of course, rather than taking only _"une petite gorgée,"_ the child drained the entire glass._

"Oups, désolé_," he said with a lopsided grin, already backpedaling toward the kitchen. "I will fetch you one more other to drink."_

_A few moments later she heard the clink of the glass against the countertop, the patter of bare feet across the kitchen floor, and the muffled scrape of the lid to the ceramic cookie jar. When Gustave re-emerged from the kitchen empty-handed, he bore a remarkably innocent expression, despite the incriminating crumbs that clung to the corners of his mouth. _

_Christine eyed him knowingly for a moment, but only chose to comment mildly, "It seems you forgot my tea, _mon cœur."

"_Oh." Her son at least had the good grace to blush before he toppled forward, dragging his feet for the first few steps and then prancing into a jog to catch up with the momentum of his top half._

_As an afterthought, Christine called after him, "And please don't forget to move your things out of the doorway. Someone could trip."_

"_I will," her boy called from the kitchen. The cookie jar scraped open again, and Christine gave a small shake of her head, caught somewhere between amusement and exasperation. Such a mischievous little imp! He was certainly his father's son… _

_Her eyes closed painfully on the thought, smothering it before it could take root. _

_Thankfully, a much-needed distraction arrived in the form of a second, heavier pair of footfalls lurching toward the house. Gathering what little energy the heat hadn't sapped from her, Christine pushed herself to her feet. She smoothed a few errant curls back from her face in a halfhearted attempt at making herself presentable, and folded her hands in front of her, waiting._

_The overwhelming stench of liquor reached her about five seconds before the screen door creaked open a second time. There was no time to think, no time to call out a warning –_

_There were a few staggering steps, and then a resounding THUD as her husband hit the wood floor, hard. There was a moment's pause, a beat of terrible silence, and then… _

"_GOD DAMNIT!" Walter bellowed, pounding a fist into the ground with enough force to shake the house. "I'll SKIN that son of a bitch!"_

_Every muscle in Christine's body clenched instinctively as she took a step back, shrinking against the wall. Terror gripped her ribcage like a vise, tightening, crushing, while her heart pounded frantically against it._

"_BOY, YOU'D BETTER RACE YOUR SORRY HIDE INTO THIS ROOM SO FAST—"_

_She heard a whimper from the kitchen. The quiet padding of bare feet drew closer, and she felt, rather than saw, her little boy come to stand in the doorway beside her. Across the room, Walter staggered drunkenly to his feet, and wheeled to face the child – chest heaving, nostrils flared, the veins in his neck purple and throbbing. His bloodshot eyes never left Gustave's face as he pointed a thick, trembling finger at the pile on the floor._

"_Did I," he panted, "Or did I NOT tell you never to leave your belongings in the doorway again?"_

_Gustave's voice was barely a whisper. "Yes, sir."_

"_I didn't HEAR YOU."_

"_Yes, sir."_

"_Then would you like to explain to me WHY I just near knocked my goddamned teeth out falling over your shoes?"_

"_I was going to move them, I just—"_

"_Just WHAT? Had to stuff your face first? Don't think I don't know that you were stealing sweets before dinner again! I can see the crumbs on your face from clear across the room."_

_Gustave's breathing began to shake with the threat of tears. "I…"_

"_What, you gonna LIE to me now, boy? Well, come on, then! Try me! Just you fuckin' try me!"_

_The little boy swallowed hard, and took a daring step forward, raising his chin defiantly. "I don't have to listen to you!" he cried. "You are not my father!" _

_Christine looked away, feeling her heart hemorrhage into her chest. Oh, yes. God help him, he was Raoul de Chagny's son, through and through. _

_Walter crossed the room in four great strides that rattled the windows in their frames, closing in on the child with all the fury and power of a charging bull. One massive hand clamped around the base of Gustave's neck, forcing the boy to look him dead in the eyes. "We'll see about that," he hissed, spitting venom with each word._

_Christine slumped against the wall as her husband marched the boy out through the screen door and across the yard. Drop by drop, she felt her blood turn to lead. She sank beneath the weight of it, sliding down to the floor. _

_She didn't watch as Walter tied her son to the decaying wooden post that had formerly been reserved for the plantation's disobedient slaves._

_She didn't hear the whip slice through the air and catch on her little boy's spine. _

_She didn't see the lash break open the freshly-healed scars, cutting through nerves, muscle, and tendon. _

_Instead, she rocked gently on her heels, humming an old Swedish folk melody. Lost behind vacant brown eyes, she drifted away to the shores of Perros-Guirec, following the flash of a red scarf out into the rolling waves. There was no pain there… no helpless child shrieking desperately for her as his blood splattered the sun-scorched earth. _

"_Maman, help me! MAMAN!"_

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><p><em><strong>Thursday, April 11th, 1912<strong>_

_**RMS TITANIC**_

Christine woke with the taste of ash in her mouth. She flung the sweat-soaked sheets off of her and reached the wash basin just as the acidic remnants of supper surged up into her throat. Clutching the rim with white fingers, she retched until she was empty, cramped and shaking. When there was nothing left, she groped her way over to the vanity chair and collapsed into it.

For a long while she stared at her reflection, studying the cold, hollow creature that gazed back at her. In the dim light, her eyes were almost black. Was that what he had seen – the frantic little child who had turned to his mother for help? Those soulless black eyes, indifferent to his suffering – watching, but never seeing?

She cupped her face in her hands, but the image was burned into her mind, unyielding even in darkness.

Superimposed on the memory of her little boy, she heard the echo of the spiteful young man she'd encountered earlier that evening. The moment he laid eyes on her, every fiber of his being had seemed to shudder with righteous hatred. Christine knew that the biting cynicism, the unbridled fury had been intended to hurt her – instead, it had done just the opposite, flooding her with unspeakable relief. After all he'd endured, Gustave could still _feel_. Another year in Georgia, and she knew he would not have been so lucky. The one flicker of hope that had sustained her over the years was that by sending him away, she might have saved what little was left of the child she loved. And now, it seemed that hope had not been entirely in vain.

She laid her cheek against the vanity's polished wood surface, and sent a silent prayer of thanks to the God that had scorned her long ago.

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><p><strong>AN: So, finally a bit of explanation to reward your patience. Not a very happy one, alas… **


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